


Touch

by daisyfalls



Category: Carmilla (Web Series)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-10
Updated: 2015-04-10
Packaged: 2018-03-22 04:08:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3714424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daisyfalls/pseuds/daisyfalls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"That was the game. That was the rule. Only needed one really. Simple and plain. You touch. And they follow. They reel and they squirm and they beg. Beg until you give them exactly what it is they want. And then more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Touch

You touch.

That was the game. That was the rule. Only needed one really. Simple and plain. You touch. And they follow. They reel and they squirm and they beg. Beg until you give them exactly what it is they want. And then more.

Always more.

More and more.

Until they are under your spell. (If that is even what you can call it, witches were never your favorite). But still. They are under  _something_. And soon they do whatever it is you say. And like the Pied Piper you lead them away to Mother and move on to the next.

Because you are intoxicating.

Toxic. You would argue.

But, then again, maybe there isn’t a difference.

You touch.

That was the rule. If only to protect yourself. Because allowing them to touch.  _Tsk, tsk, tsk._ Such danger. You would not, could not, be vulnerable. Not to them. You could not forget your purpose. For that meant feeling. And feeling meant thinking. And thinking meant truth. And truth meant reality. And reality meant that you were an awful person. Being.

 _Thing_.

And you had enough to remind you of that anyway.

You touch.

It was that simple. That easy.

You touch.

  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

You move together.

Skin against skin. Shirts and pants long since forgotten. She squirms beneath you as you run your hand up her side. You know she’s slightly ticklish and you dig your fingers in a little bit harder than would be considered sexy to elicit such a response.

She yelps and let’s out a surprised giggle.

“Jerk,” she mutters as you smirk against her lips.

“What ever do you mean?” You ask innocently and she rolls her eyes. (Something she’s been doing a lot of lately and you can’t help but feel proud).

You feel her hands come up behind your back to the clasp of your bra and, in a move that’s faster than you could ever give her credit, she has the garment removed and your positions flipped.

She looks down at you in triumph as your back hits the mattress. Eyes gleaming with success and sex.

“And here I thought I was supposed to be the one with super human strength,” You drawl out.

Instead of responding she ducks her head and ghosts her lips against your neck and for a second you are pretty certain you forget how to breathe.

She touches.

Her mouth and hands move across your skin in a way so delicate, you would think it not possible. So caring. And tender.

She touches like she’s scared she may break you; though you both know the opposite is true.

She touches.

Simply. And purely. Like she has always done it. And always will. It’s so easy. So  _good_.

Her fingers play at your hip. Teasing against lace.

_Oh._

_God._

So good.

And you feel it. Not her, though she is everywhere, but  _it_. Deep in your core. Not panic. It was never panic. But resignation. And resentment. Resentment at such resignation. That the good must stop.

This is not part of the rules. This is not part of the game.

“Do you want me to stop?”

It’s only when you open your eyes and see her creased brow and frown that you realize your entire body has tensed.

Stop?

No. Never stop. That is not what you want.

And you know it would be so easy. To flip them over again and keep going. And just keep moving. To touch and not feel.

Because this is not part of the game.

Her frown deepens at your lack of response.

But she is not a game. And you know she never was. And you aren’t certain just how long it has actually been since you allowed yourself to be in such a position. You stopped counting so many years ago. Because what was the point?

There was none.

But as she looks at you, you think it just seems so easy. And a part of you thinks it shouldn’t be. Knows it won’t be.

But you never gave two shits about easy anyway.

“No.”

She doesn’t seem convinced.

So you take her hand and together you push aside lace and silk and you moan (far too loud for your liking) when she touches you and her eyes darken to the most seductive shade you’ve ever seen.

With your free hand you trace her jaw, bringing her closer to you. You kiss along her chin, her cheek, her ear. And whisper:

“Please.”

She touches.

And you feel her everywhere. And nowhere. All at once. But then not enough. She fills you and yet you need more.

“Laura.”

You pant. And you hear her moan something unintelligible into your neck; though you’re not certain if it’s because it’s actually unintelligible or if you just can’t understand it.

She touches.

And you’re not certain you remember it ever being like this. Because certainly you would never have allowed such silly rules to dictate such pleasure. But certainly it never was. Never could have been. Because, you know, without any proof or purchase, that this is intrinsically  _her_.

She touches and it is intoxicating.

“Carmilla.” You are only faintly aware that she seems to be calling your name, you can’t hear anything over the flare of every nerve ending in your body jumping to life. “Carm.”

You hiss out a “What?” when her movements stop.

“You’re crying.”

You would scoff. But then you feel the taste of salt on your tongue. And…

 _Son of a bitch_.

A laugh bubbles in you. Because of course.  _Of_ course. You should have guessed and should have known. Because not easy. Never easy.

You laugh again and she looks absolutely mortified. More than you’re certain you probably do.

She goes to pull away, attempting to wipe at your tears. But you pull her closer. And you’re, not for the first time, amazed at how perfectly she fits to you.

Her hair is mussed and her cheeks flushed and she looks nervous. But you gently kiss her and whisper:

“I’m okay. I’m fine. I promise.”

And for a moment you stay like that. Unmoving. Connected and together. Breathing.

Just breathing.

And then you begin to move again. Slowly at first. Until she is everywhere. Everywhere and nowhere. Filling and empty.

And beautiful. So very beautiful.

Intoxicating.

She touches.


End file.
